


pictures of you

by daysinbetween



Category: The Cure (Band)
Genre: M/M, he's in love sshhh don't tell him, simon's sleepy thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 08:21:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11824785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daysinbetween/pseuds/daysinbetween
Summary: it's dark. there's light filtering through the closed windows and hitting his skin. it shines pale, luminescent; so much so that trashy newspapers and prying mags like to refer to it as a 'graveyard pallid'.simon disagrees. the look of the so-called 'dead' skin fills him with so much life it's as if he'll never sleep again.





	pictures of you

**Author's Note:**

> hey i havent written fic of the cure before so this is a bit weird but i love them a lot so  
> this is a great pairing that i wish i had the energy to write more for but alas
> 
> also sorry i havent posted an update for my marrissey fics in like a month, i went on holiday for 2 weeks and im tired as fuck and thats why lmao jet lag is shit
> 
> but i wrote this at like 2am so here u go enjoy it even tho its short ! ill upate my other fics soon i promise, ill work on them right now in fact

it's dark. there's light filtering through the closed windows and hitting his skin. it shines pale, luminescent; so much so that trashy newspapers and prying mags like to refer to it as a 'graveyard pallid'.

  
simon disagrees. the look of the so-called 'dead' skin fills him with so much life it's as if he'll never sleep again.

  
he shifts noisily where he's laying. well, the supposed abundance of noise is debatable, because if it weren't nearing 4am (as the glowing red characters on the alarm clock to his left rudely glare) the rustling of the duvet would be near silent.

  
however, it _is_ 4am and it is due to this fact that he grimaces when robert's eyebrows furrow and he seemingly shifts in response, body so tantalisingly close to his on the single bed next to him that his fingers' grip on the duvet tightens considerably.

  
 _tantalisingly close indeed,_ he muses. there must be about 15cm of space between their beds. that's absurdly close, how bloody small is their hotel room? or is he just imagining it? he did read that people often imagine what they want to believe to be the truth.

  
like ghosts! if people are so fucked up that they want ghosts to be real, that is.

  
(4am is not the time to be pondering the existence of ghosts, he reminds himself off-handedly.)

  
a better example would be when someone thinks their crush likes them back when they actually don't.

  
what he's _trying_ to say is that maybe he just wants his and robert's beds to be closer than they are.

  
simon peers over, taking a look. no, he was right. they're so close it's almost as if they're laying in the same bed.

  
 _god, that's a thought._ him, barely decent, and robert, lovely, dishevelled, sleepy robert with his hair all mussed because he has an awful habit or shifting around every 30 seconds in his sleep (it's due to months of non-stop touring and sharing hotel rooms that simon is aware of this), eyes closed prettily and face entirely relaxed, his soft breathing being the only noise in the darkness.

  
an almost exact replica of the situation they're in right now.

  
 _right now,_ he thinks. robert's there, looking like _that, right now_. absolutely darling.

  
this is ridiculous. why can't he lie awake thinking about someone _else_ at night? he's tried, of course he has, but it's so hard to focus on another person when robert's 15 fucking centimetres away looking like that.

  
the man in question shifts and turns again, as if he's heard simon's thoughts. he bloody well hopes not.

  
the worst thing is that his mind isn't entirely occupied by robert because it's 4am. it's beginning to turn into a full-time thing. they'll be practicing a new song and his fingers will slip over the strings expertly, every note perfect - until, out of the corner of his eye, he'll catch robert doing something like laugh and have to angle his face away from the mic in case the sound gets picked up, ducking slightly in a way that makes simon's previously expert fingers slip and fuck up.

  
he hasn't done it on stage yet. yet. and that's because the harsh stage lights obscure most of robert's actions from where simon's stood at the back.  
but he's seen pictures of robert on stage from the front, microphone close to his lips and red makeup around his eyes, a slick sheen of sweat pooling on his face and neck, talented fingers clutching the neck of the guitar.

  
woah. risky territory there. he wants to avoid the topic of robert's talented fingers clutching things when the man is ridiculously (like, _come on_ ) close. it should be easy to avoid that kind of topic. he's grown out of his crazy, hormonal teenage years and robert is his _friend._ he doesn't like robert that way. the thought is _gross_. it's...

  
oddly appealing.

  
wait - _appealing?!_

  
simon's brain catches at the thought as it swims through his consciousness. as if it were a normal thought, as if it were something he's _allowed to be thinking._ well, he has news for himself, he should not be thinking of robert like that and he should not be thinking it's appealing. that, he decides, can fuck off.

  
he huffs in the darkness and tries to dispel the thought. after a few moments, he fails, and huffs again.

  
maybe sleep would work?

  
he shuts his eyes. all he can see is the black back of his eyelids. everything is silent for a moment - sweet, sweet silence - before robert's _dumb fucking face_ returns to his mind's eye with a venom that makes him want to wince. okay. there's no getting to sleep like this.

  
softly, as if he's turning the wilted pages of an old, fragile, dusty book, he lets himself go over images of robert in his head. robert on stage, accompanied by a backdrop of the first 3 rows of the screaming audience, robert, blinking and drowsy as he is in the mornings after he's just woken up.  
  
  
sleep in his eye, a crimson nick from the razor on his cheek he got as he shaved that morning, an old white t-shirt thrown on and he laughs gently at something lol says but he keeps his blue eyes mostly on the breakfast table, this time lit with a backdrop of the early english sunlight surrounding his silhouette sublimely and catching on the black tufts of hair on his head.

  
it's astounding how fucking _easy_ it is to paint this detailed (albeit beautiful) picture. and then it's utterly depressing. and _you know why._

  
he falls asleep clutching his pillow, tight to his form, and if he really pictures it hard enough he can convince himself robert's a measly 15cm to his left and is the one being held in simon's arms. lucky he's got a good imagination.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading loves, pls comment opinions and ill maybe write more of this pairing? xo


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